In the Shadow of Stanton
by Sam Davidson
Summary: COMPLETE SimonBran slash. Simon goes to Wales to convalesce after an accident, and Bran is stuck as his companion. Things are different when Will's not around, but neither of them knows why.
1. Simon

In the Shadow of Stanton  
  
Disclaimer: I didn't come up with Simon, Bran or Will (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)  
  
There will be slash (though not in this part). 'Nuff said.  
  
***  
  
Part One: Simon  
  
From the moment he had appeared at the top of the hill above Aberdyfi a year ago, the sun reflecting off his hair like it was a mirror, Simon had been curious about Bran Davies. He was curious about other things surounding that vacation too, such as the way Will Stanton always seemed to emit an air of age and authority even though he was technically younger than Simon himself, and how the sensation always seemed to make Simon feel as if he had forgotten something. These things were indeed puzzling, and he thought about them often, but Bran was somehow involved in all of it too, and it was to his pale face and startling eyes that Simon's mind always returned. He possessed some of the same presence that Will had, but it was also very different. His sense of age was not the tired one that Will had, as if he had seen many generations of men making the same mistakes and fighting the same fights over and over again. Bran's sense of age seemed more like that of the Welsh hills he lived in, belonging to nothing more than the land. Simon supposed that this was partly because Bran was a shepherd, and there had been shepherds in Wales about as long as there had been a Wales to herd sheep in. But Bran's connection to the land seemed more intense even than anyone else's, as if in a way it belonged to him just as he belonged to it.  
  
Simon was a thinker. As he had gotten too old for make-believe adventures with his younger siblings, he had replaced them with silent contemplation and books. He could almost never be found without a book nearby, but it took him a long time to finish them. This was because he spent a lot of time just sitting and thinking, staring off into space with the book lying forgotten at his side. Some kids made fun of him for this, and had given him the nickname the Buddha, but he didn't really care. He no longer fantasized about being a ship's captain or a doctor when he grew up, as he did when he was younger. Nothing seemed totally out of the question, but nothing especially held his interest either. At this point he had little idea what he wanted to do with his life. He had gotten good marks in all subjects throughout his first year of high school, but had not been recognized for superlative work in anything.  
  
When his English teacher noticed in class one day that he looked paler than usual, she thought he had just been spending too much time indoors. The school was an old building with, as far as she was concerned, far too few windows. When she dismissed the class, she called him up to her desk. "Drew," she said in her concerned matron voice, "why don't you take off the next period and go outside. You look like you could use some sun and fresh air. What's your next class? I'll write a note to the teacher..." She paused, pen poised just above a blank slip of paper, and looked up at Simon.  
  
"Must I go outside?" he asked. "It's only April and it's cold out there. Besides. I don't feel too well."  
  
"Well put on a sweater," she replied. "The cold air will do you good. Now go, or you won't have any time."  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Simon turned and walked slowly out of the classroom. Only then did the teacher remember that he hadn't told her his next class. Oh well, I'll have to go look it up myself. She also made a mental note to keep an eye on Simon. He had said that he didn't feel too well- it could be that he really was sick.  
  
Simon wandered down the dim, empty halls aimlessly until he found himself at a door leading out onto the back lawn of the school. He hadn't bothered to get a sweater. He pushed open the door and was confronted with a gust of air that was cold even for April. Then he set out across the newly green grass, hearing a soft thunk as the door closed behind him.  
  
***  
  
"Oh my God, he's blue!" the girl shouted to her boyfriend who was walking with her in the woods behind the school. "At least... yes, he's breathing! Quick, go get a teacher!"  
  
***  
  
...ten, eleven, twelve. There are twelve holes in one row on one of the ceiling tiles. The tiles are square, so the total number of holes in one tile...  
  
"...twelve squared, which is forty... no. One hundred and forty... something..."  
  
"Shhh, he's talking! I can't hear... good Lord, he's doing math problems." The principal leaned over the hospital bed and shook him lightly. "Simon, listen to me! What are you doing?"  
  
"Counting the holes, sir. In the..." Simon trailed off as he gradually realized the inanity of what he was saying. More coherent thoughts began to form in his head. "Where am I?" he asked quietly. He looked around the room and it dawned on him that this probably wasn't such an intelligent thing to say either. The flowers, pastel colored furniture, and IV pole sent a pretty strong message about his location.  
  
"You're in the hospital, son," said the principal, trying to sound comforting and almost coming close. "You collapsed in the woods behind the school this morning, and you've been unconscious. The doctors say that you're going to be fine, but you need plenty of rest to get your strength back. They suggested a trip to somewhere where you won't have to worry about all the obligations and other things in your life. Your parents are on their way from their holiday in London, they should be here very soon."  
  
"Okay," said Simon, and drifted back into sleep. 


	2. Bran

In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

There will be slash (though not in this part). 'Nuff said.

***

Part Two: Bran

Bran was not a thinker. Bran was a doer. He worked hard at school during the day, and at clwyd farm the rest of the time, and so had little time for anything else. He liked it that way. Every once in a while his father or John Rowlands would suggest that he take a break and go run off with his friends or something. They didn't understand. Bran had no friends, other than the ancient Welsh hills and the sheep that spotted them. And Will Stanton. But Will wasn't there, he was at home in Buckinghamshire, leading a normal teenage life Bran supposed. _But Will wasn't normal was he?_ No, he certainly didn't seem like your average English chap, but Bran had never quite been able to figure out why. When he thought about the previous summer, when Will and all the Drews as well had been there, he always felt like he had forgotten something important. This was why he tried not to think much at all, and filled his life with work.

"Looks like we're about done for the day." John Rowlands' voice came over the hedge that they were trying to tame. Bran looked up and realized that it was indeed beginning to get dark. He stood up slowly and stretched his back a little. The older man's voice continued. I've got to stop by David Evans' to tell him about the ewe that's hurt her leg. If you come along, I'm sure Jen could rustle up some tea for us both."

"Sure," replied Bran vaguely, and they trotted down the hillside toward the largest clump of farm buildings. When they reached the farmhouse they went in without knocking, to be greeted by the rich smells that would eventually become the Evans' supper. John Rowlands went off to talk with David, and Bran seated himself at the kitchen table.

"You must have worked hard today, Bran cariad. Let me get you a cup of tea," Jen said predictably.

"Diolch," Bran replied, "I could use something to warm me up. It may be spring officially, but the actual warmth takes a while to get up into these hills." As he sipped his tea, Jen took another seat at the table and began opening the day's post.

"Look at this one," she exclaimed. "It's from the Drews. Weren't they the ones with all the kids that you and Will went about with last summer? They stayed on that awful golf course over in Aberdyfi."

"Yes," said Bran, his interest peaked. "What on earth could they be writing for?" Jen perused the letter, her eyebrows raising as she came near the end. When she was finished she put the letter down on the table and sighed slightly.

"Well, that's the oddest post we've had in a while," she stated simply. "Apparently Simon, the oldest one, had some sort of collapse in the woods behind his school. The doctors don't know quite what made it happen, but they said that he needs some place to get away from his everyday life to get his strength back." Bran thought he could see where this was going as Jen continued her explanation. "So then, I guess, the youngest one jumps up and says why not with those relations of Will's that we visited last summer. The parents thought it was absurd at first, but after a while they simply couldn't find anyone else for him to stay with. So they wrote to the Stantons in Buckinghamshire to ask them if it was possible, which it turns out they thought it was." Jen looked up at Bran after finishing and gave him a look that said _Well, what do you think of _that_?_

"That does seem a bit odd, doesn't it," Bran responded quietly, unsure of what one was supposed to say at a time like that.

"Well, we'll have to think about it," Jen said in a final sort of tone, and folded up the letter and pushed it aside.

***

That night as Bran undressed and got into bed, he found himself thinking about the letter that the Evans' had received. Thinking about Simon made him think about the previous summer, something he usually tried not to do. He always felt a terrible sense of loss when he did so, though he couldn't think why. He felt that he should feel more sad about the summer before, when his dog Cafall had been shot, but instead his sense of loss from last summer was much more intense. It all had to do with Will. Simon had to do with Will too, but he seemed much more of a follower than someone who caused things like Will did.

Simon. He was the oldest one and had seemed very sure of himself, Bran remembered. In fact a little too sure, bordering on arrogant. _Careful Bran, you don't want to be the pot calling the kettle black._ People called Bran arrogant too, but that didn't mean he had to like it as a quality in Simon. If Simon came to stay with the Evans', bran had a sneaking suspicion that he, as the only other boy around, would be stuck with being Simon's companion. Well, things could be worse. He'd just have to think of things that would be entertaining for a convalescent, arrogant, English boy. _Oh God._ Bran groaned as he rolled over and tried to go to sleep.


	3. Arrival

In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

This story is slash. 'Nuff said.

***

Part Three: Arrival

Simon sat as far back as he could in the corner of the train car, knees hugged to his chest with one arm. The other arm supported a book in front of his face. Every once in a while the arm holding the book would fall loosely to his side and he would stare at the window. It was clear that he was simply staring at the window, not through it. A man who got on at one of the stops tried to start a conversation, but was quickly silenced by the woman who had been in the compartment since before Simon had boarded. "Shh. That one don't want to be talked to," she said seriously.

The train made its way slowly westward, passing through some of the most beautiful scenery in all of Britain, but Simon didn't notice. What was he going to do for three weeks in Wales? There wouldn't be Jane or Barney to keep him company, or even Will. There would only be Bran, the arrogant boy with the freakishly white skin and hair. The one who had always fascinated him. What did looking like that do to your life? Simon had never seen him spending time with other kids the whole time he had been in Wales last summer. All of Bran's time seemed to be spent with Will and the Drews or working on the farm. Did Bran have friends? There were a lot of questions Simon had about him, most of which he would never ask. And that was all without mentioning the sense of age and power Bran had about him, both like Will and yet at the same time very different. Simon didn't know whether he would be able to find a way to enjoy his time with Bran or not- he'd just have to wait and see.

***

Bran accompanied David Owens in the Land Rover at the suggestion of Jen Owens to pick up Simon at the train station. He recognized the English boy immediately as he got off the train carrying a large brown suitcase. He looked paler than when Bran had last seen him, and his face was drawn and didn't seem to match his neatly trimmed straight brown hair and blue school uniform. Bran noticed that he was gazing blankly at the crowd on the platform.

"Over here, English!" Bran shouted to him, and he turned and gave them a weak smile. Then he hoisted his suitcase and made his way over to them.

"Still got that chip on your shoulder, have you? You Welsh are simply incorrigible. I say we should make you all sing "God Save the Queen" every day before breakfast." He was trying to act cheerful, but Bran could tell it was costing him a lot of effort. He had changed since ran had last seen him, and not simply because of the illness. Last summer when Bran had met him, he seemed like just a boy. Now he seemed older, more like Bran's equal. Real age of course had nothing to do with it.

The three of them chatted amiably in the Land Rover on the way back to clwyd farm. They talked about the things one is supposed to talk about in that type of situation. Simon shared the recent news in his family, Bran and David Owens related what had been happening around the farm and over in Aberdyfi, and all of them told what they knew of Will.

"It seems funny not having him here, doesn't it?" Simon asked after a while.

"Yes, I suppose," responded Bran lightly. The two of them looked at each other with a glance that said, _Ah, so you feel it too_. Bran felt reassured. He wasn't the only one that had odd memories about the previous summer, and the boy who had dominated it in some way he could never figure out.

When they reached the farm, Simon was embraced by Jen Evans as if he were a member of the family, and they were all herded into the house. Simon was shown his room, the same one that had been Will's, and Bran carried up his suitcase. As soon as everything was settled down, Jen forced Simon to take a rest. When he woke, it was dark outside and there were smells of dinner cooking coming up from downstairs. He made his way down, and found there had been some additions to the group while he slept. Jen had invited Owen Davies and John Rowlands, as well as Bran, to have dinner with them on Simon's first night at the farm. Simon dug into the rich Welsh food and found it to be as tasty as he remembered from the summer before. After dinner, very tired again despite his rest, he excused himself and went straight to bed.

***

"Bran, we've already been more historic places than I can count! Why don't we just stay around here today?" Simon begged one morning at the breakfast table. After staying in bed for most of three days, he had felt well enough to take walks around the Welsh countryside, and Bran had been taking him on a longer one each day. At some point along each walk they would reach some historic or mythological landmark, but the walking itself was the main object. They didn't speak much, partly because the landscape around them seemed to mute all noise, and partly because it seemed to both that they were waiting for something.

"Alright, but don't start complaining after a few hours that you're bored. If you do I'll pack you straight back to England if I have to wrestle Jen Evans out of the way." So they helped clean up from breakfast, then wandered about the house until Jen chased them out saying they were in the way. Then they went outside, lay down on a hill and stared at the sky. After a while they both turned to each other and said at the same time, in very quiet and somewhat embarrassed voices, "Will's not here."


	4. Hatching

In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

This story is slash. 'Nuff said.

***

Part Four: Hatching

__

Simon was running, running, from great danger behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw a great swirling of Light and Dark, both of them terrible. Names floated through his head: Will, Hastings, Merriman, Greenwitch. Suddenly he felt the presence of something in front of him- something solid and secure. Safety. He ran into the arms of the boy with the gleaming white hair, who held him tightly and protected him from the swirling mass as he drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

When Simon awoke he remembered nothing of his dream. It was early enough that the sun had not yet risen, and he wondered to himself why he had let Bran convince him to go on a walk at five in the morning. Reluctantly, he pulled on a pair of corduroys, a new shirt, and his blue and yellow school sweater, and headed outside.

Bran sat waiting for him on a low stone wall in front of the house, wearing black jeans and a dark grey sweater that set off his skin and hair dramatically. It was early enough in the day hat he didn't need his dark glasses to protect his eyes. He had been whittling a stick with his pocket knife, and looked up as Simon came out of the door. His tawny eyes caught Simon by surprise; in the misty morning air they looked as if they truly shone with their own light. Simon resigned himself to never truly getting used to them. "Well, I hope you enjoyed your sleep," Bran said in a cold voice, "because it had better have been worth my waiting here." Simon said nothing, startled by Bran's arrogance. Then the seated boy's face broke into a grin and he stood up. "Oh come on, don't tell me you couldn't tell I was kidding? Let's go." And he set off at his risk walking pace that by now Simon was able to keep up with. Simon followed behind him, thinking. That was the trouble with Bran, he _couldn't _ever tell when Bran was kidding. Or when he was serious, or angry, or anything else for that matter. He was beginning to realize that...

__

the boy lived inside a shell...

That was the conclusion that Bran had come to about his guest. He was annoyingly polite in that way that only the English seem to have truly mastered, and could talk intelligently about anything he had learned in school or read in book, but his heart was not in it. They had talked relatively little in their time together, but even so Bran had sensed Simon's detachment from the day he arrived. He tried to push Simon from his head and concentrated on the path ahead of him

***

Bran stopped dead in his tracks, and threw out a hand to stop Simon. "Do you feel it?" he whispered harshly. They had come to the top of a ridge that stretched a ways in either direction.

"Yes," reponded Simon softly, and a slightly hunted look crept into his eyes. Then he spoke another word, so softly Bran could barely hear it: "Will." He gathered enough courage to start saying something else, but realized Bran wasn't paying any attention to him.

__

"On Cadfan's Way, where the kestrels call..." the voice echoed in Bran's head. With an effort he tore himself away and grabbed Simon by the arm. "I think we should get off of this ridge," he said, very deliberately. The two of them took a few steps, and like a bubble bursting, everything was back to normal. They continued on in silence until they reached the destination of their walk. As they crested the top of the hill, all of a sudden a panorama came into view in front of them. There was the town of Tywyn below them, and miles of the Welsh coastline to either side, curving around the great blue-grey expanse of Cardigan Bay. Without saying anything they both stopped.

"Now is when something happens, right?" Bran said finally, a nervous smile on his lips. "Will comes, and..."

"Or Gumerry," Simon pointed out, then silently reprimanded himself for using his childhood nickname for the man.

Bran's smile vanished. "But Merriman is dead, and Will's not here." The two stood side by side staring out at the bay. "Still, it feels like something is going to happen."

"Well, maybe this time it's our turn to make something happen ourselves," Simon stated simply. 

"Like wha...?" Bran began to ask, but was interrupted by Simon's arm reaching out to wrap around his back and pull Bran towards him, so that their faces stood a few inches apart.

"Like this," Simon said, breathing heavily, and kissed Bran lightly. For one startled moment their lips remained together, then Simon pulled away, turned, and ran down the path. He slowed his steps only when he was sure Bran was not following, but did not stop until he had reached the farmhouse. There he shut himself in his room.

***

Bran staggered over to a rock and sang down onto it, a dazed expresion on his face. He touched a wondering finger to his lips, then stared at it for a moment before letting his arm fall limp to his side. What had Simon been thinking? That was crazy! It was gross! Except... 

It felt good. Well, maybe that was what all kisses felt like- Bran wouldn't know, he'd never kissed anyone before. Still, he didn't think so. _Alright, think rationally,_ he told himself. _Answer these questions, and you'll know what to do: How did it feel when he kissed you? Do you want to feel that way again?_

Bran didn't know how long he sat on the rock before deciding, but after a while the answer settled inside him. He realized when it did that it had really been there all along. There was no question. _Yes._

He ran most of the way down to the farmhouse, and was out of breath when he reached Simon's closed bedroom door. He pounded on it, and yelled for Simon to come out so they could talk, but all his efforts were met with silence. He walked slowly back to his house and shut himself in his room as well.


	5. Confusion

In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

This story is slash. 'Nuff said.

A/N: I looked back at this story and decided that I actually do like it and figured it was time to have another go at it. For anyone who's interested, though, I would still be incredibly grateful to anyone who felt like trying _their_ hand at a piece. If so please e-mail it to me at arcoiris333@hotmail.com. And now…

***

Part Five: Confusion

"Bran? Bran! Come down for breakfast, it's almost nine," Owen Davies' voice sounded muffled through the floorboards. Bran was going to have to come out of his room at some point, but his father's calls only made him want to shrink farther down into the bedclothes.

"Adowannuuh," he called back.

"What?"

"I don't want to," he tried again, struggling to get the words out around the dry feeling in his mouth. He rolled over and pulled a pillow on top of his head.

***

Simon sat at the breakfast table, staring at his bowl of oatmeal. He could see Bran's face in it, twisted with disgust at Simon, eyes filled with revulsion. At least that was how he imagined Bran must feel. He tried looking somewhere else, out the window to the blue Welsh hills, but the beautiful tawny eyes followed in his mind, boring into him with their hatred. Those eyes were beautiful, he realized now, not freakish as he had once thought. He still had no idea what had made him do what he did, up there on the hill the day before, but he had done a lot of thinking about it. And the more he thought, the more depressed he became. He did not regret it, and thanked whatever power had removed the wool from over his eyes about how he felt toward the albino boy. At the same time, however, he was not sure he could ever face those eyes again.

"Eat up your oatmeal, cariad," Jen Evans called over from the sink where she was washing the other breakfast dishes. Simon realized dimly that he was the only one left at the table. He picked up his spoon and began to shovel the food mechanically into his mouth.

He was just finishing when he heard steps approaching the front door. It sounded like two people, but he wasn't sure.

"Good morning Jen," Owen Davies called out cheerfully. Simon froze.

***

"Good morning, Simon," Bran said, trying to keep his voice neutral. He had eventually decided that the only way to figure out exactly how he felt about Simon was to talk to the boy himself. He looked intently at the back of Simon's head, seeking some sort of sign. Simon said nothing, but his silence was covered up by Jen's warm voice, welcoming them in.

Owen went over to tell Jen about a ewe that had been acting oddly, and Bran took the opportunity to move a little closer to Simon's chair. "Simon?" he said quietly.

Simon stood up abruptly, walked to the sink, deposited his bowl, and walked out the door, the whole time taking care not to catch Bran's eye. Bran followed him outside.

"Don't talk to me," Simon said, with a bitterness in his voice that Bran had never heard before. He found himself getting angry. He moved around to face Simon.

"Simon, what's-"

"Look, I told you not to talk to me!" Simon spat, turning his back to Bran quickly.

This was too much. "Simon, what the hell do you think you're doing!? You can't… kiss me one day, and then act like _I've_ done something wrong the next. It's…" He didn't get to finish what he was going to say, because Simon turned abruptly again and went back into the house. He didn't slam the door behind him, but the jolt of his departure hit Bran as violently as if he had. Bran ran one hand slowly through his hair and stared through the empty doorway.

__

What the hell am I supposed to do now?


	6. Flowering

In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

This story is slash. 'Nuff said.

***

Part Six: Flowering

__

I've got to get him back, that's what. I've got to get him back as good as he got me. While Bran felt extremely foolish thinking this, it was the only course of action that made sense. All through the day he had studiously avoided any encounter with Simon, a behavior that was obviously reciprocated by the other boy. There hadn't been any other arguments, but Bran was quickly tiring of the charade.

He sat at his harp, idly plucking at the strings as he thought. There was no tune to what he played, only a succession of chords and single notes, often with long pauses in between. He did this partly to occupy himself, and partly because he knew his father wouldn't disturb him while he was playing. The strings felt light under his fingers, making it almost feel at times as though his fingers were simply plucking the air itself. After a while he realized that he had been zoning out as he played and not thinking about Simon at all. _You stupid woolhead_, he admonished himself silently. _Can't you even keep your mind on one thing for two minutes at a time?_

And with that, he set back to thinking.

***

Simon could tell that Bran was avoiding him, and he did nothing to hinder the other boy's efforts. He spent the day randomly shuffling around the Evans' house, occasionally picking up a book and staring at the first page for a while before putting it back again. Once in a while he'd go outside, sit down on the stone wall in front of the house, and stare off at the hills, but then after a while he'd up and go back inside.

He made this slow circuit all morning, trying hard but unsuccessfully to keep his mind off the boy he had kissed, keep the sight of bright, tawny eyes out of his head, until Jen's call for lunchtime brought a welcome relief.

"What's the matter, cariad, is there something on your mind?" Jen asked, radiating matronly concern. At first it didn't even register with Simon that he should answer. "Simon?" she repeated.

"Oh, sorry. No, nothing's wrong, I'm fine. Would you pass the jam please?"

Jen didn't ask any other questions all through lunch, which to Simon's relief Bran hadn't turned up at, but as she cleared the dishes from the table she said, "Why don't you get outside and take a walk or something to clear your head. You've been spending too much of the morning indoors."

And so, if only to get her off his back, Simon pulled on a sweater, grabbed a book, and wandered outside and down the hill a ways. He stopped under a tree and lay down under it, stretching out in what was left of the summer sun, opening his book lazily. Like before, however, he could not seem to keep his attention on the page. Eventually he gave up, put his book to the side, and rolled over onto his back. Soon with the combination of stress from the last twenty-four hours and the sun shining down gently on him, he had drifted into sleep.

***

When Bran finally left the house he had little more of a plan in his head than he had hours before, sitting at his harp, but the need to do _something _had overcome any lingering inhibitions. He made his way determinedly to the Evans' house, but after poking around, he found that Simon wasn't there. He didn't feel like drawing attention, but eventually he asked Jen, "Have you got any idea where Simon's skipped off to?" trying to keep as much lightness in his voice as possible.

"No, I'm sorry, but I only know he went out somewhere. He seemed a bit groggy this morning, so I sent him out for some fresh air after lunch. I doubt he's gone far, though."

"Diolch. I'm sue I'll find him somewhere." And with that, Bran left the house again. He didn't think Simon would have gone far, so he started walking down the hill, keeping a lookout to either side for the other boy. It didn't take long for him to spot the boy in the school uniform sweater and trousers sprawled beneath the tree, and so he picked his way over to where Simon was sleeping. Not wanting to wake him, Bran sat down on the grass beside him, removing his dark glasses and taking advantage of the opportunity to examine the sleeping boy's features up close. Simon had straight, short-cropped, nondescript hair that ruffled slightly in the breeze off the bay. His face was pale, though not relative to Bran's, in the way of someone who has not spent all that much time outside. Bran reflected that in the time Simon had been in Wales, though, the beginnings of a little healthy color had started to show in his cheeks. His features weren't dark, but they were sharper than Will's, the nose more prominent and the dark lips thinner. Something about him that Bran couldn't quite pin down looked very _English_. Altogether, Bran confirmed, he was beautiful.

And so Bran continued to sit by the sleeping boy's side, staring at him, or up at the sky, occasionally plucking blades of grass out of their sheathes and toying with them in his hands.

***

A fly landing on Simon's face brought him slowly out of his slumber, and he was still half asleep as he raised his hand to brush it away. As he emerged from the folds of dreaminess, he opened his eyes, stared up at the sky, and slowly sat up with a yawn and a stretch. He realized with a jolt that he was not alone, and his pleasant, rested feeling drained away when he realized that Bran was sitting next to him. He gave the other boy a look that was meant to be a glare, but came out with more of a question in it, combined with a surprising amount of weariness. 

"Why are you here?" When Bran didn't respond immediately, he went on. "I've told you I don't want to talk to you. If I could, I'd forget all about what happened yesterday, and make you forget too, but I know that's not possible." He noticed that his voice was starting to rise, but he kept on going. "So right now, I think the best thing to do is just try to leave each other alone until I go back home, and we'll never have to think about it again." He had gotten quite loud by the end, and so the softness with which Bran replied caught him off guard.

"Simon, I didn't come here to talk. I came here for _you_." If Simon had been caught off guard by Bran's tone of voice alone, then nothing could have prepared him for what came next; as Bran leaned over, wrapped one arm around Simon's back and placed the other hand behind his head, bringing their lips together. For a moment Simon resisted, but as Bran held him tighter he opened up, returning both kiss and embrace with equal force. He dug the fingers of one hand into the thick wool of Bran's sweater, while the other stroked the back of his pale neck, feeling the softness of the hairs there. The heat of Bran's kiss filled him inside, and he leaned in, searching for more.

Unlike their first experience of this sort, this one continued much longer, until eventually they slowly broke apart. Then Bran returned with a solid hug, murmuring with a hint of laughter in Simon's ear, "I love you, you crazy Brit."


	7. Departure

In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

This story is slash. 'Nuff said.

***

Part Seven: Departure

The next day, Jen Evans went out to collect any bills that might have come in the morning's post. To her surprise, she found a letter postmarked from Buckinghamshire. _I wonder what they'll be wanting, then_, she thought. She wasn't quite sure what to think of this family, friends of that strange old man, who had suddenly thrust their son into her care. Not that it was a hassle at all, mind you, but she did think it was a bit odd.

She brought the letter into the kitchen and leaned against the counter as she opened it. 

Dear Mrs. Evans,

We want to thank you so much again for taking care of Simon. I really do hope it was not an imposition on you, but he needed to get away from here and we simply couldn't think of anyone else.

I hope that everyone is well there. Simon has told us in his letters that he is feeling much better, and I'm sure much thanks for that goes to you and your cooking, which has received much praise from him.

I am writing because we have decided to take a family holiday in two weeks to Spain, and figured that with Simon feeling better he would probably like to come with us. Assuming that he does, I have enclosed a return ticket for the train that leaves on Tuesday the 14th to come back home. Please ask Simon to write back as soon as possible to confirm that he will be coming.

Thank you once again for your hospitality,

Mary Drew

***

Simon would be leaving in the morning. Bran reflected that his emotions on knowing this were considerably different from those he had felt when he learned that the boy would be coming. _I thought he was an arrogant Brit and that I would have to think up inane things to keep him occupied while he recovered from his sickness_. He had since found out that Simon was no more arrogant than he himself, and that he had mistaken the boy's quiet contemplation for supercilious disdain. And in the last few days especially, there had been no need for Bran to think up things to keep Simon occupied. They occupied each other well enough as it was.

Bran sat on the edge of Simon's bed in the Evans' house, watching the English boy pack his suitcase. Had he been so dense as to not recognize how beautiful Simon was, before he had kissed him? The Welsh boy silently thanked God that Simon had had the audacity to make such a daring move, because he himself never would have done it. Or would he? Given enough time, might even he have had the wool removed from over his eyes? Whatever the case, he was glad he could see clearly now. 

He stared intently as Simon moved around the room, watching how his shirt fit to his form as he moved, how the light shone on his dark hair from different angles and lit up the planes of his face. Something in him must have known he thought, from the first day they had met.

***

Simon tried not to meet Bran's gaze as he moved around the room, gathering his belongings to take back home. If he did, he was afraid he might not be able to break it. They had finally come together, just in time for him to have to leave. But they were together. _None of this would have happened if Will had been here_, he thought. _It just wouldn't have come about_. He liked the boy just fine, but his memories of that summer were full of questions and dark corners. It was as if we were al so focused on something, some goal, that there was never time to actually notice the other people… to notice Bran.

He made his way over to the bed to collect the last of his belongings, the alarm clock set on the bedside table, and was startled when the silence was suddenly broken by Bran's beautifully Welsh accented voice.

"I'd think twice before packing that away. Your mother was daft enough to book for a train that leaves at five in the morning, and it's no short drive to the station." Simon realized he was right, and replaced the clock while lowering himself onto the bed next to the other boy. 

"You're right, as usual," he sighed, smiling. He reached out for Bran, encircling him tightly in his arms and burying his head on the boy's shoulder. He ran his hand through the silvery white hair, and repositioned their heads so that their mouths came together in comfort and reassurance.

When he pulled away, Simon was grinning like a puppy. "I think we'll have to get together some time again soon," he said, "What do you think?"

"I say it's a jolly good idea mate," responded Bran, in a puffed up British accent. Simon looked at him intently, with a tenderness that he had never felt at any time in his life before.

"Alright," he said, "but let's make sure it's not too long… cariad."

***

Fin.


End file.
